from somewhere
by kinq
Summary: 「OC-Insert, Warring States Era, Rewriting」"I know Mito better," she croons, nails clawing at the angle of his jaw, "Mito is not a crude wooden weapon." And the little girl grins—she cradles his head in the gaps between her fingers, as if she's trying to clasp her hands together and his head is in the way. (But you know, he has always been in the way.)


**disclaimer**: I do not own Naruto or Naruto Shippuden. c:

**warnings**: Overload of imagery, probably crowded format, angst, probable ruining of Japanese culture, inevitable canon divergence, possible OoCness, AU, use of OCs, self-insert, artistic license abuse, etc. **  
summary**: Why was it always so hard to cry, to die, to say, just once, "I'm sorry." It doesn't feel right, it isn't what she wants to say, but there isn't anything else other than apologies and what happens after. "Just stop," she cries, the tears mixing with the bitter rain, "Please, stop holding me down and let me free." She is the leaf of red fallen into waters, and she is drowning deeper where there is no ground.  
**chapter summary**: A thousand million horrible endings and all the not quite beginnings one would think; she has always remembered them all. This is the world, many years later. No one has changed.

**notes**: So, this is a complete revamp for this story. I don't think anyone will mind all that much, since I only went so far into the prologue anyhow. I haven't changed much of this chapter other than cut and add a few parts. Feel free to R&amp;R and tell me your thoughts! ^^

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From Somewhere | **00: Through Glass Windows** | Naruto &amp; Naruto Shippuden © Masashi Kishimoto

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「プロローグ」  
"Prologue"

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**T**he oceantide sang a different harmony than the one of the rivers and the raindrops.

It is a loud, roaring thing. It screams and is made up of many many voices, drowning in each other, made of salty tears and swirling into depths of darkness. Light taunts the ghosts below the surface, beckoning them closer and closer. Waves run towards the shore, the land, scrambling and crawling and always, always slipping amongst the sand.

Sometimes the water sinks into it, falling farther and deeper, burying themselves into the ground. All the way into the rock, perhaps. But it will be taken by the heat of the sun, turning into chaotic clouds and only contributing to bitter cold snow and lightning strike alike.

The water will always return to sea.

Rivers run far, run fast, leaping high, reaching and hungry for sunlight and air. River is one, They twist and turn and dance. Clean and pure; happy. Rainfall goes upon the earth below, returning to their home, almost desperate in their descent. Rainfall is calm, steady, and slow. They cry and laugh and play.

But they will return to sea. River will end there. Rain will fall there, or maybe they will fare better, going through land then river then _sea_. But they will return. They will be one with the others, ripped from identity other than _me and you_. There are no winners.

There is no winning when there is no one to be the one losing. (He never understood. That's alright. He never will, anyways.)

You can say this is where I am, many lives apart, names changing and look different every time. On the whims of man, this is where the world is, about 100 decades from me to you.

I am borne to the ones of rippling tides. The sons and daughters of change, of wind, fire, and water, of strength of heart and blood.

I am the riptide in the midst of waves.

I am a wave that has returned, comes close with memories of sinking despair and dreams, the memories of being nothing but who everyone else creates, the memories—

—of being one with many.

I am absolutely wrong, wrong wrong, wrong, wrong, wRo**NgLi****_KeT_****_hIs_**.

I am perfect, I am perfect, I am perfect, I have to believe I am perfect, this needs to needs to work, I am peRFE**CT**—

It's dragging me back, and I don't want to go, it's wrong, it's perfect, I don't exist anymore if I go, I want to be selfish, please, just...let me...

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In the beginning there was me. In the end there was you.

This was always meant to be your kingdom on water and blood and prophecy with swirling ripples calling from different ends of the vast world. This was always meant to be your story with a few pages left unsaid, wrinkled and worn and recounted over and over again.

Most of the names written in the sands will be washed away by the lapping tides of time, forgotten in the churning sea where the world awaits the arrival of the great.

Who would remember all of mankind's smaller imperfections when they simply drown and sink to the darkness of the whirling tides?

This world ruled by humans is made up of fragile memories, fragile fears, fragile desires that end with death, because life is not finite, is not mortal, is not meant to last.

But is this world mine or yours?

I've always known.

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She wakes to a spacious room, spartan in decoration, dark faded ink lined invisible against the walls and floors; a wild, controlled tremble beneath her fingertips at the sight. An energy once indefinitely small and insignificant before, really, in a world where there was electricity and oil and well polished minds. Nerves, adrenaline, happiness.

Chakra. Asian in original name. But this energy is twisted, large amounts, though revered, changing the body to its will, granting strange colours and shapes, different abilities and gifting blood with world essence. It is a fragment of information of many lost through the battling of different souls in different circumstances, between human will and world resolve.

Only a remnant of forevers. But she makes due.

Riptides are always beaten back by the greater waves. This is no difference.

Her eyes are open, open, open. Figuratively and literally. There is a sharp intake of breath and air, before she exhales outwards.

The shaky laugh that echoes across the room is hysterical. It brings no one running for her.

That's okay, she thinks honestly. That's okay.

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I cannot say that I am not human.

I have, only, forgotten how.

These people are living on blood itself, on the pure destruction the life inside themselves sings, and they laugh along to it's cry. It's a powerful moment, forever, when I live with these men and women, with red surrounding me and swirling fast. I am here in brackish waters.

Everyone is larger than me. But that is alright. It won't be for long...

...I am quite fond of drowning. Sinking dropping.

Falling.

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In this deep blue there is something throwing things into this abyss from land.

Will you call this god? Will you call this destiny? Will you call this an illusion? They are all true. It exists, in every assumption, but there is no definition to it, like how you cannot call love or or happiness or madness or sin by the same morals each person has. A dreamer, really, who plays with inconsequential pieces and throws them near and far, is correct as well.

Leaves. They float, float and cause ripples, ringing themselves together. They will sink as they move too far towards the ocean, cause too much disturbance that brings them under.

Clouds. They fly above, soar and play and change with the breeze, until they condense and drop back down, down, down beneath the gaze of light.

Sand. They lie at the shoreline, and stay together by the bonds of tidewater. But then the sun will make them separate and get swept away.

Mist. They are in the middle, cold and hiding secrets as lesser ones melt into the void. In the end, you know, they will all fall before the sun's warmth.

Rocks. The greater they are, the faster they leave the surface to darkness. The better they are, the farthest they go as they skip across. Strength holds them, however, as waves crash against them. But they will be washed into dust and shadow.

There is more, countless items found and thrown as well. How far will this paper, this iron, this smoke, this ice run? How far, really, is the only question we may ever know of.

When this one (only one) casts ink, however, where will it spread?

Stupid questions. No one will answer them.

In this deep blue there is something throwing things into this abyss from land. That is all.

She knows. She forgets.

_We shall assume the one has cast water into the water. Water that falls into the rest and water that rises all the same_.

_Water that returns to sea—_

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She finds that her little island has laughter like phoenix song and tears. Healing. Bright. Warmth and heat and protection. Burning for very long and falling into ashes centuries later. Brilliant claret shades, calling for attention. Playful legends of their fire alone, of that unwavering will they carry.

Reincarnations of tempest squall is what she likes to call all these children. In her other tongue, of course; she hasn't quite caught the foreign words reminiscent to Chinese, and completely different from English. Sometimes she just likes her quiet. It is very unusual, she supposes, to her family.

(I am water borne to ink. Ink spreads. It sinks. It swirls like smoke, the last wisps of the ash, hot stone and dust, of the dying cinders and shadows of the phoenix people. It brings out every dark thing and lets it be, cleanses scars with flame and leaving behind the darkness in the screaming blue. But I am water and fire is my past (only ever there).

Their blood burns me into vapor. It is unclear if I will freeze and fall. It is unclear if I will be the spirit of wind. It is unclear if I will only drown again under the sun's light. It is so, very unclear if I— _human_ —will shine into colour with other ones.

I am unsure. I am always unsure.)

It is nothing to worry about, because I am only calm until the burning commences, in which I can say, that I will scream and shout as well. It is in my blood.

Blood bleeds and drips and soaks and maybe I am going to scream now.

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We run like we are meant to do. Careless, bare feet skimming cold, smooth rock and words passed along like waterfalls.

This wide sea catches the sunset in it's reflection, a rippling one, an illusion it is trying to create. I cry along with the others, but it is for such different reasons. We are sometimes too bright, so much that with our hair spun fire, brightly burning, we are not like the water or the wind anymore; but only ever just pure firekind.

People are always running quickly, hurrying along, pushing past each other and pulling and— and— so much, too much— please don't— cry— it hurts— people are just meant to _run _farfarfarther, fastfastfaster. People are always running somewhere. Elsewhere, they say. People will run in the wrong direction. People run to the wrong eternity, because we're all fools.

But that's what I say. And I am a liar, at times, even unintentionally. Sometimes I wish I could...but no. I don't think I can.

I have not found my way to where I am to go. I have slept deep sleep and have always woken up. I have dreams, of course, like all dreamers, nightmares in and out of focus, an untouchable quality to these _running_ things. Dreams of hearing angels farther than I am. Faster than I am.

I am another phoenix, a soaring call of rage and anger and mourning. A desperate one who will eventually fall apart and emerge again from my sins. Burning soft, then loud, then quiet and silent in my own fire. In our own fire.

This is an island surrounded by whirlpools and water.

It is called as such.

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_There were no questions._

There were no questions_._

_..._

_Nothing was said._

_What was wrong with her?!_

_Wha—what was wrong...?_

_I am perfect, I am perfect, I am perfect...!_

_She is a child that has been alive for three years and some more and she is snapping, though no one notices or cares or thinks at all._

_She is a child that has been alive for three years; she is not supposed to be a _mistake_._

_._

_._

_._

潮。The word for tide. In an olden language, you would call it "_shio_". It has three characters, one for water, one for grass, and one for moon.

And, isn't that strange? That we call ourselves one with water, one with grass, one with moon? When our blood is ink and cinder. When our feet hit soft sand and smooth stone. When our souls and hearts resonate with fire and suns and stars.

We are naive, you whisper, running forward with no thought and no pause. But there is no use to ponder over life, no use to sit, hemming and hawing your days away. Time does not await, like space does, and running across is all we will think of. Practical, we would whisper, if we were like you.

Our island has found power in capturing sight and catching language to command. We may tell it to twist and leap. We may tell it to burn and drown. We have masks, oh-so-countless, and they are etched and carved with the lines of death itself, of reality.

(U-zu-shi-o, after U-zu-ma-ki. Spiralling, spinning, circling tides, running and running, for-eh-ver-muh-or.)

We are crueler than you'd think.

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May glass shatter before your eyes.

And she says:

"I'm sorry."

Because glass is too fragile, too cracked even when first made, more so than china or metal, waiting for something to fall-fall-fall and be cut and bleed.

It sucks the life out of you, in a way. Oh, I'm sure...that the river shouldn't sound so scary.

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...and to the me ten centuries later, who knows who I am. You are breaking too many things.

To the me who is not me, to all of the mes I will become, to you who will all kill me and change me and be me at the same time, to the me who is not next but the me who is so far away.

We all learn absolutely nothing.

I am so

sorry.

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[**prologue 00.1: end.**]

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**endnotes**: There will be other OCs since the Warring States Era has almost nothing to work with in Uzushiogakure other than Mito, who also doesn't have enough characterization to express her without variation. This is not a traditional self-insert genre, rather, it is the same dimension, and the reincarnation is deliberate.


End file.
